


Signed, Sealed, Delivered - Part One

by Bookshido



Series: The Stories of Rebekah Grimes, Courier Six [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Don't Have to Know Canon, Explicit Language, Game Spoilers, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Multi, No Companion Maximum, Non-Explicit Sex, Revised and Rereleased, Universe Alteration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-01-16 18:20:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12348045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookshido/pseuds/Bookshido
Summary: "Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them."-William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night





	1. Chapter 1

"One?" the woman asked, pen poised above the sheath of paper.

"Two," the boy continued, slowly lowering his hand towards his own contract.

"Three!" the other woman said with the excitement of a child, hastily scribbling her name on the dotted line at the bottom of the contract.

The other two rapidly fired away their own John Hancock's on the paper and pushing it across the counter towards Jonathan Nash. He took them and scanned the other signature places before looking at the three signatures. Rebekah Grimes. James Duffy. And Zoe Philippou. He then looked over the people who matched the signatures.

Rebekah was like her signature: simple, quiet, and yet with something that flared out uniquely. In her case, this was her light brown hair, pulled into pigtails and somehow bleached to blonde on the ends. He'd heard of the youngsters doing this, finding some kind of heavy cleaner and going to town, though he hadn't seen it in person until now. She stood just higher than five feet, posed almost militarily in her plain clothes: black leather boots that rose up her thigh, white tank top, jeans, faded back leather jacket, and a worn cowboy hat. She had a much smaller air of foreignness to her than her companions, like this was almost her second home. Along with a sense that she, despite her age, had seen the world before the war, she seemed quite competent. He determined she would be an asset to the company, despite the fact she looked significantly less athletic than the others.

James was taller than both women by almost a foot with hair a darker but similar shade to Rebekah's. His face was that of an intellectual, the tan new on his face, betraying his unfamiliarity with the locale. His jumpiness would keep him alive, should the situation call for it. His clothes were more bland than his companions, all shades of tan and almost military-like. They didn't fit well on his lanky frame, but were close enough to his actual size that you would be hard-pressed to notice the uncomfortable way he was standing. His hand writing mirrored him as well: straight to the point, simple, but also faint, like he was afraid to put too much pressure on the pen. That restraint would be valuable when dealing with the usual gang of Wasteland assholes.

Zoe, however, seemed extremely comfortable. Even more so than Rebekah. Her face had barely tanned and cheeks freckled, her expression serene as he studied the small group. It was an interesting dichotomy to how unfamiliar she seemed with the area. Her handwriting was chicken scratch, but still controlled and he could see why. She seemed very stressed, but Nash could imagine that she was amazing under pressure and could hold her own for a long time. Her clothing was more suitable for the Mojave than her companions: long pants, hiking boots, plain white shirt and a simple jean jacket with ample pockets.

"Welcome to the Mojave Express," he said, smiling as he looked over the contracts again. "Looks like everything is in order. Do you have any questions before we get started?"

None of them spoke, Zoe shaking her head quickly and James making rather unsettling eye contact with Jonathan so that the older man had to look away.

"I can't say that I'm not glad that you all signed on so recently, but I'm going to need you to get the hell out of here," Nash said, starting to chuckle when they looked panicked. "I'm kidding. Well... not really. I've been looking for three new couriers to fill in for three others who came down with radiation sickness after their last deliveries. Some freak living up past Nellis near the pre-War testing sites. Left me in a bit of a pinch, so if this keeps workin' out, I'll hire you on as full couriers with a paycheck to match."

"Alright, what do we have to do?" James asked, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Deliver your packages and I'll pay you when you get back," Jonathan explained. "I'll give you your assignments and bags once you get a solid meal in your stomachs. Don't want to send you out into the wastes without some kind of nutrition. There's a mean squealer stew out there today."

The three left, chattering together and sharing high fives as the door to the cafeteria clicked shut behind them.

* * *

 

_Two years later..._

"How's your sister, by the way," James asked, sipping the broth. "How old is she now; seventeen?"

"Yep, that's right," Rebekah said, swallowing and stiffening slightly. "Just turned seventeen last month."

"What's she doing while you're gone?" Zoe asked, frowning. "I thought you said she can't shoot? Is she staying on the ranch?"

"Sammy's been staying with a family friend," Rebekah said, her voice tense and rough as she pushed a couple stray locks behind her ear. "So she can stay in school and doesn't have to worry about the ranch."

"Biscuit still alive?" James cut in, sensing an argument on the way.

"Yeah, she's still around," she replied, visibly relaxing now that they were away from that talk. "At least, that’s what the last letter said."

"How are you and your brother holding up?" James asked Zoe next. “He’s nine now, right?”

"Well enough, they-" she said, getting cut off by an announcement.

"Philippou!" the intercoms barked, making all the couriers startle and then go back to their food. "Package."

"I guess that's me," Zoe said, swallowing another bite and smiling thinly. "I wish we could've talked longer, you guys. Stay safe, don't die out there."

They all stood and embraced, not wanting to let go until Zoe pried their hands off. She headed for the stairs and hurried up, not looking back as she entered Nash's office. The two sat in silence and continued eating, the tension palpable. She glanced around, remembering entering the cafeteria, pulling her hat off, and wiping sweat from her brow before putting it back on. The musty room was almost the same as the one they had ate at together when they all first signed on. The Mojave Express liked to keep things uniform, or so it seemed.

"What do you think she's delivering?" Rebekah whispered, shoving another small bite of her steak in her mouth.

"No idea and I don't think we're allowed to talk about it," James said with a shrug. "I'm sure whatever it is, she'll be fine."

"I hope so," Rebekah muttered back, finishing the chunk of meat. "Hey, at least I've still got company with you-"

"Duffy!" the intercoms barked again.

"Whoa, that fast?" Rebekah said, starting to frown. "Man, sounds like he had it all ready before we signed up."

"Don't worry about it. Nash is a good man; I think we'd know if he was working for someone unsavory," he said, scraping the bottom of the bowl. "Mm... The squealer stew is surprisingly good."

"You'd better get going before you lose your job," Rebekah said, standing and walking around the table to stand in front of him. "Stay safe, don't die out there. I want to see you in Primm with all your limbs, okay?"

"I swear," James promised, laughing teasingly. "Same to you."

They embraced, squeezing each other as tightly as they had Zoe. She stepped back first, gesturing at Nash's office with a smile. He grinned back, flashing the finger guns as he started up the stairs. Rebekah smiled back and sat down, sipping the Sunset Sarsaparilla slowly, savoring the cool temperature of the drink. It was chilled somehow, having been pulled from a beat-to-hell refrigerator once she had been given her steak. Her eyes drifted to the clock and she stared off into space at it, watching time slip away for almost fifteen minutes before she was startled out of her reverie.

"Grimes," Nash said over the speakers.

A shiver ran down her spine as she stood, the eyes of the other couriers watching her every move. Most seemed friendly, but there were a few that seemed envious and almost malicious. Rebekah walked up the stairs and paused outside the main door, casting one last look over the cafeteria. Everyone had returned to their meals and she pushed open the door.

"I was just about to call you again," he told her first and she stiffened.

“I was on my way,” she said, the words more barbed than before as she shut the door and walked over to stand in front of the desk.

Nash stared at her for a moment. This was not the same woman he had hired two years ago. She was hardened, eyes stiff and face tight as she waited for him to go on. While the outfit choice was the same, she was more lean and the most bare of muscle outlines could be seen. She also stood taller, more erect like she was some kind of powerful force that he couldn’t understand. The wearing of her clothing seemed like it was part of building her back up.

"Your assignment is simple," Nash explained, passing the familiar Mojave Express courier bag to her. "Follow the invoice instructions. It has all of your instructions, but I'll explain real fast for you. Your delivery is going to the New Vegas strip; the Lucky 38. Ever been to the Strip?"

"No," she said and then lied, sliding the bag on, and adjusting the shoulder rest. "Haven't left California."

"Good, means you'll be less likely to get into trouble while you're there," he grumbled, crossing his arms. "The Lucky 38 is the casino with the huge tower. Can't miss it. Can probably even see it from Novac when you get to that town. It's the one all lit up red and white all night."

Rebekah nodded.

"This package has a substantial importance and urgency, so defend it well," Nash said, pausing to correct himself. "Just don't get yourself killed out there. If you can get it to New Vegas within the next week, you'll receive a substantial bonus paid in caps. Don't take needless risks to try and get it back early though. I don't want a dead courier."

"Alright, thank you," she said, gripping the strap tighter.

"Don't worry, this is a pretty simple run," he said, trying to sound reassuring. "Just go to New Vegas, hand the package off to the Securitron at the entrance, and then head back. The worst you'll have to worry about is raiders on the road or some over curious animals. Which is why I'm giving you this."

He pulled a gun out his desk and handed it across the table to her. It was a simple 9 mm pistol that looked like the style of pre-War weaponry with a fair amount of scratches and bumping around. Rebekah glanced at it with a slightly offended look, but still picked it up and weighed it in her hands. Any weapon was good to have, but the damn thing had better hold together on the road. It seemed well enough made for now.

"You know how to shoot, right?" he asked, to which she responded with a nod. "Use it for emergencies only, and for the love of god: if you shoot, don't miss. There's only eight bullets in there and I don't know if you'll be able to find any more out there."

Rebekah nodded once more, sliding the gun into her satchel. The weight of the gun was significantly different from the package and she could hear some slight rattling as she put it in with the other gear.

"Otherwise, your bag has the standard gear," Nash explained, gesturing at it. "A compass, thermos, some military rations, ballpoint pen, notepad, flint and steel, atlas of the southwest, certificate of service; you'll see it all when you start going into it. There isn't any sleeping or cooking gear, so I'd suggest finding a boarding house to stay in overnight and restaurants to eat in. The service certificate will tell the proprietor to send the bill to the Mojave Express."

She nodded, remaining quiet as he sighed and looked around.

"Alright, I think that's it," he finished, smiling thinly. "Hope to see you soon. Good luck."

"Thank you," she replied, shaking his hand over the desk.

"Just head on out the way you came," Jonathan informed her, gesturing to the front office door.

Rebekah nodded and walked over, taking a deep breath as she pushed open the door.

Outside, the air was like an oven and sweat formed on her brow instantly. Rebekah was more than grateful that she had chosen to take her cowboy hat with her. The door slammed shut behind her as Rebekah walked down the stairs to the main street level. Walking across the street, she took a seat on one of the hotel's rocking chairs and pulled out the map, finding that Nash had already marked her route to New Vegas for her. Pulling out the compass and spinning until she was pointed east, Rebekah noticed that she was pointed straight out the far end of town. As she put the map away, she found herself turning back towards the building she had just exited. She stared at the fading sign above the Mojave Express building and sighed, turning away. Sliding her hand into her bag, she gripped the gun and began walking, compass tight in her other hand. Her shadow stretched out in front of her, running up and down the broken asphalt, pointing east and towards the city of stars.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, here's where we're getting into the main game play portion of the story! Chapters are going to be a little more far and few between now because I need to go into the game and record dialogue choices and responses so my fic can be as accurate as possible.

Rebekah hated the desert. She’d forgotten how much she hated it, but being out in the damned sun for two days straight with nothing to entertain her but counting clouds was a new kind of hell. Irritably, she aimed a kick at a rock as she passed. She missed and kept walking, her irritation growing as she had to wipe sweat from her brow again. Currently, she was a day into the delivery and everything had been going smoothly, if not slowly. There had been no sign of raiders or mutated creatures, which was beyond lucky for her. The only reason she’d had to draw her pistol was when a pack of coyotes got a little too close to her campfire the night prior. That was a good thing about the NCR’s control; they kept the land somewhat safe for people to go to and fro. Deathclaws were a thing of legend nowadays and when she’d made her way past China Lake’s salt flats, she was glad to see a heavy NCR presence. 

She began the slow incline, her knees screaming in protest only minutes into the steep hike. Rebekah pressed on, feeling the sun hitting the back of her neck and remaining grateful that she had paused to put on sunscreen once more before moving again. The home mix had worked wonders under the California sun and she was glad to see that it worked as she neared Nevada. Sweat poured down from her brow and under her hat as the sun continued to beat down on her. 

She paused for breath, looking up the hill to see the dented, but present signs marked with the two-headed bear in red spray paint. The images looked like they had been haphazardly put on rapidly and some of them had large scratch marks and bullet holes in them. Black spray paint showed stenciled on wording that stood out sharply against the green base.

_ Mojave Outpost Ahead,  _ the text read.  _ Be Prepared to Present Identification. _

Rebekah groaned and kept walking, fishing in her bag for her wallet. She pulled it out and started to thumb through the cards, finding her ID card and passport. She slid the two into her pocket and kept moving. The cool plastics were refreshing against her warm leg despite the barely there difference and she sighed with mild relief before taking another swig from her canteen.

“Up and onward,” she muttered, stowing it in her sack. “God, I cannot wait to get out of this fucking sun…”

* * *

 

After an hour’s hike up the mountain, she finally reached the large gate that marked the boundaries of the legendary Mojave Outpost. Two large guard towers flanked the double gate doors and she could barely see forms of armored soldiers manning the shaded platforms. Two Rangers were stationed on either side of the gate and they started walking to meet her as she got closer. 

“Halt!” the Ranger called, his voice more computer than man. “Please present your New California Republic identification and passport.”

“Give me a sec,” Rebekah muttered, shoving her bag out of the way to get to the cards. “Ah… there you are.”

He took them and held them up next to each other as he looked them over. He then looked over at her and back to the cards. Rebekah shifted uncomfortably as he handed them over to the other ranger, who barely even looked at the cards and instead stared at her. 

“Mind taking your hat off?” the second Ranger asked, her female voice also changed. 

Rebekah sighed, but took it off and straightened her posture so they could see her face more clearly. 

“Glasses too?” the male Ranger asked, voice devoid of emotion.

She pursed her lips and stifled a groan of irritation as she pulled them off and held the glasses in her other hand. They stared at her and the female Ranger scooted over so the male Ranger could see. 

“I can see it,” he agreed, nodding with the female Ranger. “Alright, citizen. Go ahead and put them back on. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

“Yeah, no worries,” she apologized back, pulling her hat back on. “Those cameras can take pretty different pictures.”

“Once you’re inside the gate, just keep going up the road,” the female Ranger instructed. “I wouldn’t put your cards away, customs is going to need them. Since you’re with the Mojave Express, you have to go through the caravaner line and present your cargo.”

“Alright, thanks,” she said, adjusting her glasses. 

“Open it up!” the male Ranger shouted, waving to the tower. 

The gates began to creak open as the guard towers were filled with shouting. The creaking was almost unbearably loud and she hurried through as soon as the hole was big enough. Brahmin droppings were everywhere here and she had to step carefully to avoid the piles of shit. Being inside the gates made all the difference and she soon approached the second level of gates, which was identical to the first. Only one soldier was stationed here by the main gates and the two towers were guarded by Rangers as well. This soldier didn’t even stop her, shouting for the gates to open as soon as he saw her approach. 

“Caravan line is to the right,” he told her as she passed. “Go into the front doors. You came in on a slow day.”

“Thanks,” she called over her shoulder as she continued up the road. 

Two buildings came into view and one had a long line of people sticking out of it. The other was distinctly less crowded and had large hangar doors on one side. She made a beeline for the right one and slipped into the people sized door. 

Inside, it was musty, poorly lit, and several booths with thick glass plating had been assembled against the far wall. Each one had a soldier inside and they were talking with the people who stood in front of the glass. They seemed to be from all walks of life and there was a small line of four people waiting to be put through customs. She wove through the lines of cordons and stood behind a man holding a box with holes punched in it. Faint sounds like puppies squeaking came from inside it and he kept looking inside, like he was nervous they were going to get out. The line continued to move along easily, but two of the four people in front of her were denied entry and turned back, so her turn came along sooner than expected. 

“Next!” a gruff, but attractive voice called from the far side of the room. 

She walked slowly over to the counter and set her satchel on it. The unamused man behind the glass pursed his lips at her and pulled out a couple sheets of paper and a pen. He wore the standard beret of Mojave operations soldiers and tufts of light brown hair stuck out from underneath it. His blue eyes were almost glazed over as he focused on her. A small patch on his right breast pocket had his last name: Knight. 

“Hello, please present your New California Republic identification card and passport, please,” he said in a monotone voice. 

“Here you go,” Rebekah replied, pushing them under the gap in the glass.

Knight stared at the two for what felt like hours before sighing and pushing them back to her. She took the two documents and slid them into the side pocket of her bag. 

“Purpose and length of visit?” he asked, filling in information as he spoke. 

“Delivery of package to the New Vegas Strip,” Rebekah explained, shoving her hands in her pockets. “I’m going to be in Nevada for two days, possibly three if traffic is slow.”

He blinked at her, finally making eye contact. “How long are you going to be in Nevada,” Knight repeated. 

“Three days,” she decided with an eyeroll, taking a deep breath to stay calm. 

Knight nodded and made another note.

“What’s your delivery?” he asked next, pen poised above the form.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, earning another glare from Private Knight. 

“Then look,” he said slowly with an eyeroll. “I have to approve it before it goes through if it’s food or plant material.”

With a huff, she pulled open the manifest paper and read it aloud to him. 

“One oversized poker chip,” she read off, holding it up for him to see. “Composed of platinum.”

“That’s legal,” he said, scribbling his initials on the form. “You can take the delivery through.”

“Anything else?” she asked, her tone more barbed than she intended it to be. 

“Yeah, actually,” Knight grumbled. “We aren’t letting traders through because of an increased raider presence on the road through to Nipton. The only reason I’m letting you through is because I reccomend you go through Primm and Sloan to get to the Strip. That will bypass that whole mess and you should get there before the raiders make it to those areas.”

“Thanks for the tip,” she said gratefully, removing her bag and slinging it around her shoulders again. 

“Go on, get through,” the trooper said with an eyeroll. “Stay safe out there, I don’t want to have to drag your ass out of a mess you’ve gotten yourself into.”

“A simple stay safe would have been nice, Private Knight,” she replied, reading his nametag and rolling her eyes. “I’ll try to keep out of trouble and your hair.”

He handed back her passport and yelled for the next traveller to move forward as she exited the checkpoint into the next zone. Caravaneers milled around the area and a low buzz of chit chatting filled the air, giving the outpost a lived in feeling. Rebekah weaved through the crowds and around brahmin, avoiding getting stepped on twice by the huge beasts. Suspicious eyes followed her and she walked past the fences and out towards the statues that marked the beginning of Nevada. 

“Hey, watch it!” a loud male voice yelled as she accidentally trod on someone’s toe. 

“Sorry!” she shouted, backing up and into someone who had been walking behind her. 

That person’s bottle of alcohol dropped to the asphalt and shattered, sending liquid and glass in every direction as Rebekah jumped away from them. The two angry men started to advance towards her and she swallowed, hand going to her bag. Surrounding people quickly cleared the area, leaving them in a circle shaped area.

“You’re going to pay for that,” the alcohol man hissed, scowling at her. 

“I can give you caps,” she promised, trying to keep her voice even. “More than enough. I’m so sorry.”

“Money?” the toe man scoffed. “As if that’s gonna help the pain in my damn foot. No, I think we need to teach you a lesson. What do you think, Gus?”

“I agree, Harry,” the alcohol man agreed, pulling out a knife. 

“Hey, assholes,” a loud female voice called from behind them. “Why don’t you pick on someone who can actually make it a fair fight!”

All three people turned to see an angry looking woman in a low cut yellow shirt with a intricate gold necklace and jeans storming over. Her red hair was barely sticking out from under a brown cowboy hat and the look of determination in her eyes could stop a rampaging brahmin. 

“Fuck off, Cass,” toe man ordered, pulling out his own knife. “This is between us and this bottom-feeder.”

“You got eyes, dumbass?” she snapped back, gesturing towards Rebekah. “You’re not just fucking with her; you’re fucking with the Mojave Express. Do you really want them hunting down your asses? Making it hell to get anything moved across the desert?”

“So what?” alcohol man scoffed. “Like they can do anything to hurt us.”

“You Crimson Caravaners think you’re so fucking special because of your government contracts,” Cass grumbled, hand straying to the rifle slung over her back. “Look, just leave the girl alone and we won’t have any issues.”

“Your words don’t have any power here,” he replied, looking over to his buddy. “What do you say we teach these bitches a lesson.”

Before Rebekah could react, Cass lunged forward and socked the toe guy in the jaw with a strong right hook. He stumbled back, swearing and the alcohol guy tried to take a slice at her with his knife, but Rebekah took a kick at his ankle and knocked him down. He swore as well and the crowd began to react when the knife clanged on the cracked out asphalt. Someone screamed as Rebekah dodged the man trying to grab her ankle and Cass knocked out the other man. A chorus of moos came from a nearby group of brahmin and they bolted, dragging their owner only a few feet before the man dropped the lead rope. More screaming ensued as they headed through the crowd towards the Nevada side of the outpost.

“Enough!” a gruff male voice shouted, someone’ hand seizing the back of Rebekah’s jacket and pulling her back away from the fight. 

Whoever had grabbed Rebekah’s jacket seized her arms and twisted them behind her back, holding her in place.  Two NCR soldiers broke through the crowd and went after the two remaining fighters. Cass was pulled back first, spitting curses at the man she had been kicking as he tried to get up. The other soldier had to help the alcohol man to his feet before restraining him like she and Cass were. 

“Knight, Cahill, go after those Brahmin!” he shouted.

The two soldiers bolted after the cattle and the man holding her sighed irritably. 

“Take Miss Cassidy and her male friend to the holding cells,” the gruff male voice said from behind her. “I can smell the whiskey from here. Let them sleep it off before we find out what happened. Johnson, once you’re done, come with me to the station. I’ll be in the office A with this one.”

The man spun her around and marched Rebekah towards the office station, shouting for the other travellers to get on their way. Once inside, she was pushed through the NCR building and past rows of cubicles to go into a back area. This area was much more dark and didn’t buzz with activity like the front room had. Three closed doors lined the hall and the man pushed her towards the closest one on the right. He only let go of her with one hand to open the door and shove her inside. Rebekah spun around to get a good look at the man. 

He was tall, as expected, and sported a large blonde brown mustache underneath a pair of intense aviator sunglasses. The reflection looked like something out of an old holodisk and he was scowling at her. 

“Don’t even think of trying to run,” he told her, slamming the door shut right after he said it.

* * *

 

“So, what happened,” the soldier asked for the fourth time. 

“I already told you,” she insisted. “I nearly hit a brahmin and stepped on a guy’s toe as I dodged. I tried to back away from him and ran into another guy, who dropped a bottle of booze. I apologized and offered to pay for the bottle and they threatened me. Then that Cass chick came out of nowhere and told them to back off. They didn’t, and she punched them. All I did was knock a guy’s legs out from under him as he tried to stab her.”

“I have to speak with my superiors,” the soldier explained, gathering his papers and rising. “Someone will be in in a few moments.”

“Rebekah Grimes, twenty years old, from Sweetwater, New California, right on the border of The Hub district and the Boneyard. Currently employed as a courier on the Mojave Express,” Private Knight read aloud as he took a seat. “Travelling through Nevada to New Vegas on delivery orders. Gets into a fight when she barely crosses the border. Tsk tsk. Not the best start to your job.”

“Oh god, not you again,” she groaned, leaning back in her chair. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to give you back your shit,” he explained. “So that you can get on your merry way. We’re not arresting you, even though the other drunk claims you stole something of his and the tussle caused a stampede.”

“Thank god,” Rebekah muttered, taking the bag he pushed across the table. 

“However, we are asking that you leave the Outpost immediately and get on your way,” Knight informed her. “Liability, you understand.”

“Yeah, don’t have to tell me twice,” she replied, sliding it on and checking through the contents. 

“Alright, well, don’t die out there,” he said, rising and heading for the door. 

“Thanks,” she called, rising from her chair and walking to the door as well. 

Knight had already left when she was exiting the room and she wandered down the hall and back out into the main office. Knight was manning the counter and didn’t even look up when she passed by and went to the exit. She pushed open the door and walked out into the hot afternoon.

* * *

 

The sun was just beginning to make a track down towards the western horizon as she turned towards the statues and made her way to it. The crowds of caravaners and travellers seemed to part for her and whispers followed her as she moved through them and out towards the far gate. No one moved to stop her and she went to the right of the huge feet as she started down the hill. Unlike the other side, no one seemed to be going out into the extended Wasteland. She brushed off the temporary concern and kept moving as she walked towards Nevada. 

After navigating her way down the road towards Primm and getting through yet another NCR checkpoint, Rebekah was stopped at a crossroads. One headed almost directly towards New Vegas, while the other looped around past a town called Goodsprings before spitting her out on the western side of the city. Map out, she stared up the two roads. The sun was already starting to set, so this was going to be the road she would have to stay on and find some kind of lodging. 

Nash had marked the path through Goodsprings on her map, but the path to Sloan would get her there more quickly. She sighed and stowed the map, turning west and starting up the road towards Goodsprings. It may be a little further, but she’d rather go the official path then get caught trying to take a short cut. Could the Express come after her for rerouting? When she got to Primm again, she’d have to ask Mr. Nash. 

The road to Goodsprings went uphill fairly easily and the slight incline didn’t hurt as much as the road up to the Outpost. This road was in surprisingly good shape for a post War road and she found herself wandering into town only a few moments after the sun had fully set. 

Goodsprings was dark, no lights were shining besides the flickering signs above the saloon. She shivered before continuing on her way, hearing loud music playing from within the saloon. Rebekah passed the dark General Store and swallowed slowly, starting to feel a small hunger pain. Obviously, there was no sign of places to stay in this town, so she’d be camping or squatting tonight. The second of which was less than appealing, but being able to find a shelter was also preferable to sleeping on the ground and potentially starting a wildfire. She walked around the curve and past a Poseidon Energy gas station as she started up the hill towards the back road Nash had marked. It cut directly into the mountains and she was feeling the burn as she advanced up the hill.

A crunch of gravel made her freeze, hand straying to her bag where the 9 mm. was still holstered. The only noises now were the rustling of Joshua Trees as the hot night wind blew down the town street. She shivered again and kept walking, adjusting the grip on her bag so it was tighter. The crunching began again and Rebekah picked up the pace, not wanting to break into a run unless absolutely necessary. The follower increased their pace, so she did the same, running up the road. 

A hand grabbed the back of her jacket and pulled her to a stop. As she struggled to get free, something hard collided with her temple. Everything went black as the person let go of her and she sank to her knees.

* * *

 

The first thing Rebekah noticed when she woke up was the panging in her forehead. The thumping of her own heartbeat helped bring her to focus, and the next thing she could focus on was the thing stuffed in her mouth. It was dry, itchy, tasted mildly of mildew, and she couldn’t move the thing from her mouth. Her eyes flew open, scanning the area in front of her panickedly. All she could see was dirt and she didn’t dare move her head as she heard people moving around in front of her. Two ropes were cutting into her, wrapped around both her feet and her hands. As she began to feel more and more sensations throughout her aching body, the people in front of her began talking. 

“You got what you were after, so pay up,” a gruff male voice ordered. 

The horrible taste must have been a gag and she could feel the fabric cutting into the back of her head as she slowly worked her jaw around it. Ever so slowly, Rebekah raised herself off the ground, remaining hunched over and not bothering to brush herself off. Her eyes darted around, looking from her bent knees to the hole in the ground directly in front of her, large enough to be a grave. Her grave. She was kneeling in front of a large hole in the ground, several unfamiliar people in front of her and no hope of finding means to defend herself. For all she knew, they could be Caesar’s Legion, ready to sell her off into slavery just because Californian blood ran through her veins. 

“You’re crying in the rain, pally,” another, more smooth male voice said with an unusual accent.

She kept her head down, trying not to move the rest of her body as she tried to fidget with the ropes, twisting her hands around it. 

“Guess who’s wakin’ up over here,” a third, more slimey sounding voice announced with a snigger. 

Rebekah froze and slowly lifted her head, blinking carefully as she looked at her captors. Two of the men were dressed in matching outfits: baggy black capri style pants with many pockets, vests with metal shoulder pads, and bandanas hiding their hair from sight. One of them was African-American, the other white, and the black man had an impressive handlebar mustache. The white man was clutching a shovel for dear life as he stared at her. They stood on either side of the third and final man. He was taller than both of them, white, and had hair gelled to the point where even a nuclear blast couldn’t unstick it. He was clean-shaven and wearing a very distinctive suit. It was black and white checked, looking almost like a gingham pattern and had a simple black tie around his neck. A cigarette was drooping lazily in his mouth and he took a long hit before dropping it to the ground. As he exhaled the smoke, he rubbed the embers into the dirt.

“Time to cash out,” he muttered, stepping forward.

“Would you get it over with?” the black man asked, gesturing widely. 

Suited guy paused him by lifting his right hand and extending his pointer before speaking again.

“Maybe Khans kill people without looking them in the face, but I ain’t no fink, dig?” the suit man said, making Rebekah’s eyes go wide in horror as he barely turned to the Great Kahn.

He turned back to her, making eye contact with the horrorstruck woman as he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled something out. The man clutched the platinum chip between his pointer and middle finger, the precious metal shining in the moonlight as he twirled it around. She stared at the chip and then back to him, trying to ignore how her heart kept racing faster and faster.

“You’ve made your last delivery, kid,” he said, glancing from the chip back to her as he spoke.

The suit man paused and began to place the chip back into his jacket pocket. 

“I’m sorry you got twisted up in this scene,” he apologized, pulling a handgun from his jacket pocket where he had just placed the chip. 

Rebekah’s eyes flew to the pistol in his hand. It was a beautiful silver plated 9 mm pistol with a mother of pearl handle. Flower-esque patterns snaked along the main body of the pistol in golden detailing and she could faintly see a drawing off some sort under his hand on the grip. She turned her gaze back to the man, who was watching her expectantly. 

“From where you’re kneeling,” he began, glancing at the pistol himself, then back at her. “It must seem like an eighteen carat run of bad luck.”

She continued to stare, unable to protest or move as he slowly lifted the gun and took careful aim, directly between her eyes. Rebekah tried to swallow back a whimper of panic, but it barely slipped out, eliciting small laughter from the Khans. The suited man remained quiet until they stopped laughing and then continued speaking. 

“Truth is…” he trailed off, barely cocking his head. “The game was rigged from the start.”

His facial expression stiffened and then there was a bang. Then everything went black again.

 


	3. Chapter 3

When she came to, the rough wooden roof of a shack swam into view as her eyes focused on the spinning blades of a ceiling fan. As she barely groaned, the fan turned into two, almost double vision as someone spoke from next to her. 

“You’re awake, how about that,” a gentle, older man’s voice said with wonder. 

Rebekah continued to blink and felt around on the bed, feeling that it was secure. With another groan, she began to sit up, turning to face the man who had spoken, even as her eyes still tried to focus ahead. The pounding in her head was only making the situation worse and she could feel herself swaying slightly as she stared at the balding man. He was sitting in a simple chair next to her bed and wore overalls, a red bandana, and smart looking boots. A stretcher was pushed against a wall behind him.

“Whoa, easy now,” the man said, reaching out from his chair and helping hold her steady. “You been out cold a couple of days now.”

She continued to sway, not wanting to say anything in case it made her headache worse. Her vision began to even out to the usual unmodified blur and the man held out her glasses with a small smile. She squinted at the object in his hand before recognizing them as her own. Hesitantly, Rebekah took them from him and slid them on. They were much more clear than before, so she supposed he had cleaned them for her. Nice guy. Now that her glasses were on, she could see that he was not completely bald, but balding with an impressive white handlebar mustache.

“Why don’t you just relax a second, get your bearings,” he suggested, leaning back now that she seemed more secure.

She nodded gently, then winced as the pain in her head increased. 

“Let’s see what the damage is,” he suggested. “How about your name? Can you tell me your name?”

She swallowed slightly and coughed a little, clearing her parched throat. 

“Rebekah,” she whispered, trying to raise her voice to a more normal tone. “Rebekah Grimes.”

“Huh,” he mused, watching her with a still concerned expression. “Can’t say it’s what I’d have picked for you. But if that’s your name, that’s your name.”

She barely frowned and looked down at herself, noticing that her clothes were not the same. She was in little more than her underclothes: a battered white (well, formerly white) tank top and camo green shorts. He must have taken them off when… when he… That whole section was a blank at the moment and she must have been looking spooked because the man’s tone changed to one that was more reassuring. 

“I’m Doc Mitchell,” he explained, pointing to himself. “Welcome to Goodsprings. Now… I hope you don’t mind. I had to go rooting around there in your noggin to pull all the bits of lead out. I take pride in my needlework, but you’d better tell me if I left anything out of place.”

He reached under the chair and pulled out a Reflectron, handing it to her. She switched it on, looking over her own reflection. A long mark of stitches traced it’s way along her hairline and two small spots closer to the center of her forehead were scabbed over, dark brown spots against her skin. The line of stitches was red and almost puffy, clearly new and trying to settle. Judging by the stitches, she guessed it was going to scar, or at least stick around for a while. 

“How’d I do?” he asked curiously, leaning forward. 

“I…” she trailed off, swallowing hard. 

“Well, I got most of it right anyway,” Doc Mitchell muttered, starting to stand up. “Stuff that mattered. Okay, no sense keeping you in bed anymore. Let’s see if we can get you on your feet.”

He stepped closer and reached under her arm, helping Rebekah as she pushed up with her arms and tried to balance on her unsteady legs. Her vision swam again and even as she thought she was on the verge of passing out, she stayed put and a small smile came onto the doctor’s face. So far as when she could finally make out his face.

“Good,” he complimented. “Why don’t you walk down to the end of the room? Over by that vigor testing machine there. Take it slow now, it ain’t a race.”

He slowly stepped back, and when she showed no sign of falling, he turned and walked over to the device. She took a deep breath and stared at the machine. It wa only a few feet away. And so she set off. One foot in front of the other until she was standing in front of the machine. Getting back to walking wasn’t nearly as hard as she had imagined it to be and her vision was barely blurry as she moved.

“Looking good so far,” the doctor said, crossing his arms. “Go ahead and give that vigor tester a try. We’ll learn right quick if you got back all of your faculties.”

She stared at the device. Seven categories of skills were listed. The first one up was strength and the tester instructed that she squeeze a little knob as hard as possible. She did so and the lights lit up to the ‘Average Joe’ mark. In an instant, the tester moved onto the next test.

The next test was a perception test that had her locate hidden images. This was simple enough and she had soon finished the puzzle, finding a hidden key in a section of trains. It lit up to the sixth mark before flipping over to the Endurance test. 

This test was a little more odd. It tested her heartbeat and she had to jump in place for a moment before it finally gave her a score of four on the scale. The Charisma test was pretty similar, but instead of making her jump up and down, it did some kind of facial scan before giving her a six there as well. 

The intelligence ranking was placed there on it’s own as well, ending up with a eight in that category and the swiftly moving onto the agility. This one ranked itself at a four and she frowned, slightly miffed at the computer. The luck category however… that was interesting. It seemed to be the fastest one to declare the ranking at a level seven. As soon as the tests finished, a paper shot out the side of the device and into Doc Mitchell’s hand, who examined it carefully. 

“Look at that, haven’t seen a score that high there in… well, never,” he admitted, gesturing to the luck print out. “Damn. Maybe them bullets did you some good, kid.”

He slid the papers into his pocket and began walking towards the next room over. 

“But,” he continued, muttering. “That don’t mean them bullets didn’t leave you nuttier than a Bighorner dropping.”

He turned to face her, gesturing for Rebekah to join him in the room. 

“What do you say you take a seat on my couch and we go through a couple of questions, see if your dogs are still barking,” Doc Mitchell suggested, crossing his arms once more.

She nodded and walked over. Each step made her head throb and she was grateful to take a seat on the couch with a huff. Doc Mitchell waited for her to settle in before pulling out a small book and a pencil. 

“I’m going to say and word and I want you to tell me the first thing that comes to mind,” he told her, opening the book and holding the pencil at the ready. “Dog.”

“Cat,” she immediately replied. 

Doc Mitchell made a note in the book and went on. 

“House,” he said next. 

“Shelter,” Rebekah replied. 

“Night.”

“Day.”

“Bandit.”

“Thief.”

“Light.”

“Dark.”

“Mother.”

“Caretaker.”

After each response, he made a note in the book. Once they stopped, he wrote a couple more notes in the margin and then flipped a page. 

“Okay,” he said, then cleared his throat. “Now, I’ve got a few statements. I want you to tell me how much they sound like something you’d say.”

She nodded and waited for him to speak.

“Conflict just ain’t my nature,” he stated. 

“Agree,” she replied. 

“I ain’t given to relying on others for support.”

“Agree.”

“I’m always fixin’ to be the center of attention.”

“Disagree.”

“I’m slow to embrace new ideas.”

“Disagree.”

“I charge in to deal with my problems head on.”

“Disagree.”

“Alright, almost done,” he told her, making a few careful notes. “What do you say you have a look at these? Tell me what you see.”

Doc Mitchell held up a card with an ink spot on it. She’d heard of these tests before; pre-war shrinks would use the tests to determine if they were dealing someone psychotic. She didn’t feel psychotic or dangerous. This inkblot was a weird shape like it had been dropped directly into water and the page had been waved around so it was damaged. That probably could have happened, considering that the bombs dropped, but if they had, they wouldn’t be in that good of shape. 

“Uh…” she mused, squinting a little as she thought. “It looks like a two headed… ant thing..?” 

“Alright,” he said and held up the next one. 

“That looks like some kind of energy weapon or radio antennae,” she said immediately. 

“Next one,” he said, putting down the card. 

“A skull,” she said immediately. 

Doc Mitchell turned the card around and studied the blot. He gave her a confused look and looked back down at the card. He then shrugged and put it back in the pile. 

“Alright, you certainly have all your dogs barking,” he told her, looking over the notes. “Albeit, a little morbid, but I don’t really have concerns.”

He made a couple more notes on the notebook and set it on the side table with the inkblot papers. 

“Come with me, I’ll see you out,” he offered, rising.

“Thanks,” Rebekah said, standing and starting to follow him.

He went to a small cabinet and pulled it open. As Rebekah came up behind him, she couldn't see what he was pulling out, but when he turned around, she recognized what he was carrying. 

“Here, these are yours,” he informed her, holding out the stack of clothes and the Mojave Express bag. “Was all you had on you when you was brought in.”

She took them carefully, smiling for the first time that day when she saw that her cowboy hat was untouched by the brutality the man in the checked suit had shown. Only her leather jacket had survived and her mood shifted when she saw that they were the only clothes left. Inside the bag, the delivery manifest was still there, along with a couple of crumbs and a cap wedged into the seam that had somehow stuck around. 

“I was hoping to find a next of kin,” Doc Mitchell explained, crossing his arms again. “I read the note, but it just said something about a platinum chip.”

Rebekah nodded and slung the bag over her shoulder. 

“Well, if you’re heading back out there, you ought to have this,” he told her, pulling a dented and scratched up piece of technology off the top shelf. 

The darkened metal was scraped silver in some areas and the wrist strap was worn and almost tattered. This device had clearly been through hell in back, but somehow, when Doc Mitchell hit the power button, the screen lit up brilliant green. 

“They call it a Pip Boy,” he explained, handing it over and helping her put it on. “I grew up in one of them vaults they made before the war. We all had one. Ain’t much use to me now, but you might want such a thing after what you’ve been through. I know what it’s like, having something taken from you.”

He pulled a folded blue and gold shining cloth off the shelf and handed it to her almost wistfully. 

“And put this on too,” Doc suggested. “So the locals don’t pick on you for lacking modesty. Was my wife’s. I think she was about your size, and she hardly wore it after we left the vault. Thought it was too brazen.”

She tucked the clothing under her arm and stared at the man, pursing her lips. 

“You shouldn’t have gone through my stuff,” she stated.

“Didn’t have much choice, I’m afraid,” he apologized. “But I understand the sentiment. I reckon some of the other folks at the saloon might be able to help you out too. And the metal fella, Victor, who pulled you outta your grave.” 

“I was in a grave?” she asked, starting to be even more confused. 

“Yep,” he informed her. “Anyway, you ever get hurt out there, you come right back. I’ll fix you up. But try not to get killed anymore.”

He chuckled at his own little joke and she smiled politely before adjusting her grip on the clothes. 

“Do you have a restroom I can use?” she asked a little more gruffly. “So I can get changed.”

“Yeah, right down the hall to the left,” he told her before pointing and starting to walk away. “Shout if you need anything.”

She nodded and followed his directions, finding a simple and slightly dirty set up with a rickety looking door. Hesitantly, she pulled the door shut behind her and set the clothes on the sink, staring at her face in the partially rusted mirror. The faint sounds of radio music echoed through the house, muffling the sounds of upbeat jingle jangling. She pushed a couple strands of hair away and focused on the scabs that covered the two bullet holes. Judging by the color of the dried blood, they were going to scar, leaving her with a permanent reminder of what had happened in the cemetery. That bastard in the checked suit and his Khan cronies. They were going to pay for what they did. She scowled and let her hair fall back, turning her attention to the clothes now.

First things first was the jumpsuit with a big bold ‘21’ on the back of it. It fit surprisingly well and as soon as she put it on, the fabric seemed to be almost cooling to the skin and seemed to become skintight. Boots were built into the jumpsuit and she took a few steps around, trying to get used to the feeling of the unique fabric and thinner soles.

The next things she put on were the accessories. The jacket slid on just fine, the leather looking very stylish with the jumpsuit. Then the hat, which worked quite well as expected. Then the shoulder bag. It seemed out of place with the outfit, but when her hand strayed towards putting it in the garbage can, something stopped her and put it back on. She couldn’t ditch it. It was one of only a couple things left from before this incident.  Not to mention that she needed something to carry all her things in.

Rebekah looked back up in the mirror. She looked like a completely different person. Her hair, normally pulled back in some kind of bun or ponytail, was loose around her shoulders. The ends had once been blonde, but now were back to her original dark brown. She tucked the hair behind her ears and studied the rest of her look. She looked haunted and almost gaunt, which was new to her, who had always been a little more heavy-set. The vault suit looked odd on her and for a fleeting moment, she wondered if this was what her ancestors had looked like before they locked themselves away. They probably did, but with a different vault number, of course. How the hell would they react to her and what she was doing. It probably wouldn't be good. 

She rolled her shoulders back and made eye contact with herself, trying to make a more intimidating face. As she gripped the bag, Rebekah looked less like a vengeful angel of death and more like a scared child. She stared only a moment longer and then sighed. Turning on her heel, Rebekah faced the bathroom door, took a deep breath and exited. 

Dammit, that checked bastard was going to pay. 


End file.
